CONFESSION.
By the time that Mrs. Anerley arrived, Dove was sufficiently well to
suffer removal from the hotel; and as there was now no help for it, the
whole family removed to those rooms which Will had engaged for them from
his landlord. The position of affairs had now to be disclosed; and with
all the cheerfulness and mutual consolation they could muster, the
prospect seemed doleful enough. Every one seemed to be chiefly
concerned for Dove, and Dove was the least concerned of all. She put
her arm round Mr. Anerley's neck, as he bent over the couch on which she
lay, and whispered to him--
"You have lost all your shooting, poor papa."
"Yes."
"But then you have me. I'm as good as the biggest partridge you ever
saw, am I not?"
"I think you are, darling."
"And you have lost all your fishing, poor papa."
"Yes, that too."
"But did you ever get a trout to kiss you as I do?"
Which was followed by the usual caress.
"And you won't have such lots of wine; but you know, papa, how angry you
used to be when people did not appreciate what you thought was good."
"And where is my little Dove to get her port-wine after dinner on
Sunday?" said he.
"You'll see, papa. Just after dinner, when we're all sitting at the
table, and you are looking sadly at the dry walnuts, and everybody is
thinking about the nice Sundays down in the country, you know, there
will be a little rustling, and a little murmur of music in the
air--somewhere near the roof; and all at once two bottles of wine will
be hung round your neck by the fairies--for it's only you who care about
it, you know--and everybody will laugh at you. That is the punishment
for thinking about port-wine. Do I want port-wine? You're an old
cheat, papa, and try to make me believe I am ill that you may have your
port-wine on Sunday. But I am not, and I won't have any extravagance."
He, with a great pain at his heart, saw the forced look of cheerfulness
on her sweet face, and made some abominable vow about selling his
mother's marriage-ring before Dove should want her port-wine.
Dove was really so well, however, when Mrs. Anerley came, that the
anxious and tender mamma was almost at a loss how to expend the care and
sympathy with which she had charged herself. It was at this juncture
that Will proposed that Mr. and Mrs. Anerley should go and see Annie
Brunel, and give her what comfort and assistance lay in their power.
And no sooner were the circumstances of the girl's position mentioned,
than both at once, and gladly, consented.
"But why not come with us?" said his mother.
"I would rather you went by yourselves. She will be only too grateful
if you go to see her. She does not know how to manage a funeral. Then
she is alone; you will be able to speak to her better than I, and in any
case I must remain with Dove."
So they went, and when they were gone, Dove asked him to come and seat
himself beside her couch. She put out her little white hand to him, and
he noticed that her eyes were singularly large and clear. They were
fixed upon him with the old tender sadness, and he was forced to think
of the time when heaven itself seemed open to him in those beautiful,
transparent depths. But why should they be sad? He remembered the old
delight of them, the mystery of them, the kindness of them; and perhaps
he thought that in a little time he would be able to awaken the old
light in them, and rejoice in the gladness, and be honestly, wholly in
love with his future wife.
"Why didn't you go with them?" she asked.
"And leave you alone?"
He could have wished that those eyes were less frank and less
penetrating.
"Sometimes I fancy, Will, that you think me a great baby, and that there
is no use explaining things to me, and that I am only to be petted and
treated like a child. And so you have always petted me, like the rest,
and I liked it very well, as you know. But if I am to be your wife,
Will, you mustn't treat me as a child any more."
"Would you like to be old and wise and motherly, Dove? How must I treat
you? You know you are only a poor little child, my dearest; but then,
when we marry, you will suddenly grow very old."
There was no glad pleasure and hope in his voice, and doubtless she
caught the tone of his speech, for the large eyes were absent and
troubled.
"You are not frank with me, Will," she said, in a low voice. "You won't
explain the difference there has been in you ever since you came back
from Germany. Ah, such a difference!" she added, with a sigh, and her
eyes were withdrawn from his face. "Perhaps I only imagine it, but
everything seems altered. We are not to each other what we used to be:
you are kinder than ever, I think, and you want to be what you were; but
something has come between us, Will."
Every word she uttered lacerated his heart, for how could he look upon
the patient, kind, sweet face, and tell a lie?--and how dared he tell
the truth?
"Come closer, Will. Bend your head down, and I'll whisper something to
you. It is this: Ever since you came back from Germany I have been
wretched, without knowing why. Many a time I was going to tell you;
then you always looked as if you were not as much my friend as you used
to be, and I dared not do it. You have not been frank with me, and I
have seen it often and often as I have watched you, and my heart used to
lie cold and still like lead. And oh, Will, do you know what I've been
thinking?--I've been thinking that you don't love me any more!"
She turned away her agonised face from him, and a slight shudder ran
through her frame.
"Dove, listen to me----"
"And if it is true, Will," she said, with trembling lips, her face still
being turned from him--"if it is true, don't tell me that it is, Will;
how could I bear to hear you say that? I should only wish to die at
once, and be out of everybody's way--out of your way too, Will, if I am
in the way. I never expected to talk like this to you--never, never;
for I used to think--down there in St. Mary-Kirby, you know--that you
could never do anything but love me, and that we should always go on the
same wherever we were. But things are all changed, Will. It was never
the same after you left the last time, and since you have come back,
they have changed more and more. And now up here in London, it seems as
if all the old life were broken away, and we two had only been dreaming
down there. And I have been sick at heart, and wretched; and when I
found myself ill the other day, I wished I might die."
He had destroyed that beautiful world; and he knew it, although there
was no chorus of spirits to sing to him--
"Weh! weh!
Du hast sie zerstoert,
Die schoene Welt!
Mit maechtiger Faust;
Sie stuerzt, sie zerfallt!
* * * * *
Praechtiger
Baue sie wieder
In deinem Busen baue sie auf!
Neuen Lebenslauf
Beginne,
Wit hellem Sinne
Und neue Lieder
Toenen darauf!"
Was it possible for him to build it up again, and restore the old love
and the old confidence? It was not until this heartbroken wail was
wrung from the poor girl that he fully saw the desolation that had
fallen upon them. Bitterly he accused himself of all that had happened,
and vainly he looked about for some brief solace he might now offer her.
"You don't say anything," she murmured, "because you have been always
kind to me, and you do not wish to pain me. But I know it is true,
Will, whether you speak or not. Everything is changed now--everything;
and--and I've heard, Will, that when one is heartbroken, one dies."
"If you do not wish to break my heart, Dove, don't talk like that," he
said, beside himself with despair and remorse. "See, give me your hand,
and I'll tell you all about it. Turn your eyes to me, dearest. We are
a little changed, I know; but what does it matter? So soon as ever we
can, we shall marry, Dove; and then the old confidence will come back
again. I have been away so much from you that we have lost our old
familiarity; but when we are married, you know----"
Then she turned, and the beautiful violet eyes were once more reading
his face.
"You _wish_ us to be married, Will?"
"My darling, I do," he said eagerly, honestly, joyously--for in the mere
thought that thereby he _might_ make some reparation there lay peace and
assurance for the future. "I wish that we could be married to-morrow
morning."
She pressed his hand and lay back on the cushion with a sigh. There was
a pale, wan pleasure in her face, and a satisfied languor in her eyes.
"I think I shall make a very good wife," she said, a little while after,
with the old smile on her face. "But I shall have to be petted, and
cared for, and spoiled, just as before. I don't think I should wish to
be treated differently if I knew you were frank with me, and explained
your griefs to me, and so on. I wished, darling, to be older, and out
of this spoiling, because I thought you considered me such a baby----"
"You will be no longer a baby when you are married. Think of yourself
as a married woman, Dove--the importance you will have, the dignity you
will assume. Think of yourself presiding over your own tea-table--think
of yourself choosing a house down near Hastings, and making wonderful
arrangements with the milkman, and the butcher; and getting into a
terrible rage when they forget your orders, and blaming all their
negligence on me."
"My dear, I don't think I shall have anything to do with butchers and
milkmen."
"Why?"
"Because I don't think you will ever have any money to pay them with."
"So long as I have only one arm with which to work for you, Dove, you
must learn to live on little; but still----"
"I shall not want much, shall I, if I have you beside me to make me
forget that I am hungry? But it all looks like a dream, just like what
is past. Are they both dreams, dearest? Were those real times down in
the old house, when you and I used to sit together, or walk out
together, over the common, you know, and over the bridge by the
mill-head, and away over the meadows down by that strip of wood, and so
on, and so on, until we came to the river again, and the road, and
Balnacluith House, and the deer-park? How pleasant it was, in the
summer evenings; but that seems so long ago!"
"How sad you have been these last few days, Dove!"
"Because I have been thinking, Will. And all that seems a dream, and
all that is coming seems a dream, and there is nothing real but just
now, and then I find you and me estranged from each other. Ah, yes,
Will; you are very kind in speaking of our marriage; but we are not now
what we were once."
"Dove," he said, with a desperate effort, "I cannot bear this any
longer. If you go on moping like this, you will kill yourself. It is
better you should know all the truth at once--you will listen, dearest,
and forgive me, and help me to make the best we can of the future."
There was a quick sparkle of joy in her eyes.
"Oh, Will, Will, are you going to tell me all now?"
"Yes, dearest."
"Then you needn't speak a word--not a word--for I know you love me,
after all. Perhaps not altogether; but quite enough to satisfy me,
Will, and I am so glad--so glad!"
She burst into tears, and hid her face from him.
He scarcely knew whether grief or joy was the cause of this emotion; but
in a minute or two she said--
"I am going to whisper something to you. You fell in love with Miss
Brunel when you were over in Germany, and you found it out when it was
too late, and you did not know what to do. Your kindness brought you
back to me, though your thoughts were with her. Is it not all true I
have been telling you? And I was afraid it would be so always, and that
you and I were parted for ever; for you hid the secret from me, and
dared not tell me. But the moment I saw in your eyes that you were
going to tell me, I knew some of the old love must be there--some of our
old confidence; and now--now--oh, my darling, I can trust you with my
life, and my heart, and all the love I can offer you!"
"You have spoken the truth, Dove," he said, and he knew that her rare
womanly instinct had not lied to her, "and you have made me happier than
I have been for many a day. You do not blame me much for what is past
and gone? And you see that after all the old love may come back between
us; and you will help me to bring it back, and keep it safe."
"And I will be a true wife to you, Will."
She fixed her eyes gravely and earnestly upon him. Then she lifted his
hand to her lips, and--bethinking herself, perhaps, of some quaint
foreign custom of which she may have heard--she kissed it, in token of
meek submission and wifely self-surrender.